Helical
by gorekind
Summary: Zoro tries to sweat out the beginning of the flu. Sanji goes dadmode. Modern AU. ZoSan. Trans headcanons for both characters. Written for hurt/comfort bingo - prompt: exhaustion.


The place smells like a sweat sock, but that seems to be true most days, in varying degrees. It seems like Zoro at least attempted to get it to smell okay; Sanji can detect the scent of his favorite incense. Dragon's blood, all strong and smoky. Upon entering the living room, he sees Zoro passed out on the floor with both his shirt and his binder off.

Honestly, he's walked into weirder situations.

Sanji pulls a Camel Wide out of his pack and lights it. Striding over to Zoro's side, he boots him in the ribs gently. The green-haired man doesn't stir.

"Oi, moss-head," he calls, nowhere close to full volume. Zoro sleeps on. Sanji sits next to him, reaching out to lay the back of his hand against the other's forehead. Then he checks his pulse, though he can tell he's alive from the steady swell of his ribs with his deep, even breaths.

"You invited me over, so wake up." Sanji orders, pulling at Zoro's ear. This rouses him enough, and he rises just enough to prop himself up on his elbows.

He looks downright fucking wiped like Sanji's never seen him before. Eyes half lidded, blinking slowly but often. Head hung, a little sweat collecting at his temples. The skin of his forehead felt a little tacky; he's probably been drenched in his own sweat.

"Did I?"

"Yeah. Like, last night." Sanji says, leans forward to ash in the tray on the coffee table. What the hell has this moss-head so beat? He almost wants to pull him to bed - and keep his hands off him. He pulls his phone from his pocket and scrolls through to find their messages.

from : fucking prick

you should come over tomorrow after training

ends at four i think

sometime in the afternoon

whatever

"Mmm." he hums in assent. "Guess I shouldn't have gone so hard. I think I have the flu."

"What?" Sanji bristles. Zoro sniffs and rolls over on his back with some effort.

He scratches at the bridge of his nose and winces, "Yeah. Skin hurts, feel all thick and sluggish everywhere. Thought, like, maybe I could sweat it out. So I worked out from … six 'til four."

"You try to sweat everything out!" he nearly barks. "And you're gonna get _me_ sick!"

"Shit."

"I know you don't think things through all the time, but jeez - this is a new personal best, huh?"

"Shut the fuck up." he responds flatly. Sanji does for just a moment, before crushing the cherry of the cigarette out and standing up.

"Need help getting up?"

"Day I need help getting up is the day I'm dead." he sits up with that, "Why'm I getting up?"

"'Cause I'm gonna take care of your smelly ass." Sanji tells him, leaving no room for debate, "You look fuckin' bushed. Can't believe you ran around and lifted weights for _ten hours_ with the fuckin' flu."

There's not much Zoro can argue with, so he moves to his hands and knees. Standing up slowly, he groans and rolls his shoulders. Even though he looks absolutely beat to shit, stance not quite as proud and posture not as great, Sanji has to appraise him a little.

He's absolutely not shy, even around people he's not fucking; been known to go without his shirt and binder around mutual friends. His body is absolutely _bangin'_, even when he carries himself all dead-weight.

"Where we going?" he asks.

Sanji just leads him quietly to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Sometimes, he settles into these moods where he needs to take care of people; it must be a food and hospitality thing. Zoro jokes with him, sits in his lap, calls him dad, when he gets this way.

He looks good, not sick - looks _alive_ - just for a second. For that second Sanji thinks about touching him, maybe putting his back to the wall or unzipping his pants - but then the illusion shatters.

Zoro buries his head in the crook of his elbow and sneezes.

"Eugh. You're gross. C'mon, in."

"'m sick, don't blame me for that." Zoro growls, shedding his pants and boxers. It takes him a minute to climb into the shower, water spraying everywhere as he rubs at his face. Sanji just watches for a minute, hands on his hips.

His arrangement with Zoro is so strange, and he never fails to mull over the situation when they're together. Its something like tug of war, he finds, between three players which switch out at random.

Sometimes they're platonic, just comrades who care for one another. Other times Sanji wants to kick the hell out of him ( and so they fight ); and other times still, its something not quite dating shaped but definitely romantic.

The romantic shade that their relationship takes is the most startling.

He shakes his head and opens the medicine cabinet. There's a vial of testosterone cypionate and stuff more suited for physical injuries; some Neosporin and hydrogen peroxide, rubbing alcohol. A bottle of vitamins, bandages.

He frowns.

"Where d'you keep your medicine and stuff?"

"Bedroom; I think there's Dayquil in there." Zoro replies. He's washing off his arms and chest slowly, soap running off of him in soapy currents.

"All right. Wash your ass and come out to the kitchen." he tells him, before turning on his heel and stalking out of the bathroom. Sanji has to shake his head when he gets to the bedroom, as if to clear it from all the steam.

Surprisingly, the bedroom smells like less of a gym and much more like his incense. The Dayquil sits half full on the dresser, so he grabs it and takes a seat on the bed. Its just a bit bigger than a twin-sized bed; Zoro said anything more than that wouldn't make sense. Whenever Sanji sleeps over he has to cuddle up close or just sleep on the couch.

There's pictures on the dresser, too, pictures that Sanji's seen a million times. All of them when they went to the beach, flexing; sitting in Luffy and Ace's living room with glasses full of rum; a picture of Chopper when they took him fishing, all grins with an admittedly impressive catch.

Still, there's a picture of Sanji and Zoro with the former's arms wrapped around the latter's waist, both looking slightly annoyed with Usopp, who was behind the camera.

Sanji doesn't know how he feels about that picture being up with the rest of them; its not like its even a good picture. They look warm and tired from after the concert, edges blurred and lighting not quite the best.

Zoro has more pictures, of course. Usopp insists on taking them, sentimental bastard that he is. He also insists on doling out copies.

He gets his frames from thrift shops, and one of them was even painted and decorated by Chopper. Wooden, with a messy paint job and buttons and - God bless him - pipe cleaners glued to the surface.

The blonde stands again and strides out of the bedroom.

He notes that the water's still running, but he expects it'll stop soon; Zoro is typically quick and efficient in the shower. Almost furious with his movements.

The kitchen is his element, no matter who it belongs to. Sanji muscled his way into his friends' places and gradually began to bully them into shopping better. More fresh ingredients, less processed _crap_, although its still hard to separate Luffy and Ace from their snacks.

Even Zoro's taken to it, thank the heavens. There's all the stuff he needs to make soup, which the swordsman probably expects. He sets to work, putting on both water and chicken stock to boil.

Zoro enters the kitchen while Sanji is chopping carrots; there's already a pile of onions, and the pasta is cooking away.

"How did I know," he asks, dryly. Sanji just points to the Dayquil on the counter, already dosed out.

"Take all that."

"Yes, dad."

"Shut up."

Zoro knocks it back like a shot and all but collapses into a chair. Sanji keeps working, chopping this and stirring that. Its when he starts to dice chicken that he finally looks back at the moss-head.

He's sleeping again, eyes closed and arms crossed over his chest. Just in a pair of loose fitting pants and a beater, damn him. He needs to be covered up, especially just out of a shower, but he's probably incredibly warm. Its only the start of the flu, or maybe its just a really bad cold. Either way.

Sanji doesn't know how he does it. How he runs for hours and how he lifts, how he gets up to do it day after day after day. He doesn't know how he kept it up for so long, especially since he must have woken up feeling like death.

Its downright _inhuman_.

That's why he sleeps like the dead, anywhere and everywhere. And often.

Sanji keeps working, letting Zoro sleep. _Poor thing_, he thinks; then he shakes his head. _Don't pity the bastard, he brought this on himself_. _You're just doing him a favor_.

When all of the thoughts run out, he's just on autopilot. Stirring, adding spices, whirling around the kitchen in a practiced series of movements. Zoro neither wakes nor snores, snoozing away quietly.

There's all the work he can do for now. Sanji takes a seat next to Zoro at the table and lights another cigarette. The thick smoke curls into his lungs, nicotine in his blood, calms him. Exhale, inhale. He doesn't think much of anything for a few moments, staving off more thoughts of his truly odd relationship with the man sleeping next to him.

Until he wakes. He manages to make it look seamless, like he was merely resting his eyes, although Sanji knows better.

He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table, eyes closed through the motion. Then his head drops onto his forearms.

"Wake me up in twenty, will ya?"

"Mmhm."

Sanji's hand moves before he can stop it, carding through the short strands at the back of his head. He relaxes into the touch, just slightly. As expected. Zoro is nearly always tense.

He lets the swordsman sleep. He thinks, maybe, this arrangement is okay. Uncomfortable and strange in some places, with muddled intent and feelings, emotions blended together on high. But its good. It feels good and safe, somehow.

If someone had told him he'd be in such a relationship with Zoro when they had first met, Sanji might have punched that person.

He decides he's done enough dwelling for at least the rest of the week. Plus, his cigarette is spent. Crushing it out, he sits up straight and allows his own eyelids to slip closed. At least until the soup is done and the twenty minutes are up.

He sighs a smokeless sigh.

_Damn moss-head._


End file.
